The throne room of Hastinapura shimmered with a golden glow, its marble walls ablaze with the flicker of oil lamps hung high in their iron brackets.
Banners of red and gold swayed from the rafters, their edges frayed but proud, rippling in the draft that slipped through the arched windows.
The Ganga's hum pulsed faintly beyond, a distant heartbeat beneath the swell of voices—nobles clustered in silks of blue, green, and crimson, their murmur a rising tide.
The air carried the warm scent of sandalwood and wax, mingling with the dusty tang of the plains, borne in on the boots of returning warriors.
Pandu stood at the room's center, sixteen summers strong, his pale hands still flecked with dried blood, his torn tunic patched with sweat and earth.
His dark hair hung loose, framing a face sharpened by battle, his eyes bright but weary, the spear from the valley propped beside him, its tip dulled red.
Bhishma towered before the throne, his dark tunic crisp despite the years, his silver-streaked hair catching the lamplight, his gray eyes steady and fierce.
In his hands, he held a sword—scarred and heavy, its blade notched from countless fights, its hilt wrapped in worn leather, a warrior's legacy etched in steel.
Satyavati sat atop the dais, her gray sari shimmering, her hands resting light, her dark gaze fixed on Pandu with a quiet, fierce pride.
Dhritarashtra lingered near the wall, his staff gripped tight, its scarred tip pressed to the stone, his sightless eyes blank, his lips a thin, silent line.
Vidura stood by Satyavati's side, a scroll under his arm, his dark curls shifting as he watched, his calm a steady thread in the room's fervor.
The doors groaned open, and the nobles turned, their chatter hushing as Pandu's small force shuffled in—wounded soldiers leaning on comrades, captives roped behind.
A cheer erupted, ragged at first, then swelling, a roar that shook the banners as the nobles surged forward, goblets raised, voices booming.
"Victory!" a lord in blue bellowed, his beard streaked gray, slamming his cup on a table, wine sloshing over the rim. "The tribes are broken!"
Pandu stepped forward, his boots scuffing the marble, and dropped to one knee before Bhishma, his head bowed, the spear clattering beside him.
"The raiders yield," he said, his voice low, steady despite the exhaustion threading through, "peace holds—for now."
Bhishma's gaze softened, a rare warmth breaking his stern mask, and he lifted the sword, its blade catching the light in a dull, battle-worn gleam.
"You've earned this, Pandu," he said, his voice proud, resonant, carrying over the room's hum as he extended the weapon, hilt-first.
Pandu rose, his hands steadying as he took the sword, its weight sinking into his grip, the scars on its blade a mirror to the blood on his palms.
"I'll wield it for Kuru," he said, his tone humble, firm, a vow stitched into the words as he bowed again, the blade resting against his side.
Bhishma's nod was firm, a silent seal, and he clapped Pandu's shoulder, his hand lingering, the pride in his eyes a flame that lit the room.
"A king emerges," he said, his voice low, meant for Pandu alone, but the nobles caught it, their cheers exploding anew, a thunderous wave.
"A warrior prince!" a noble in green shouted, her voice sharp, raising her goblet high, and the hall echoed—"To Pandu!"—"Kuru's arm!"
The banners snapped, the applause rolled, and Pandu straightened, the sword heavy in his hand, his chest swelling as the weight of their faith settled on him.
Satyavati leaned forward, her smile faint but real, and murmured to Vidura, "He's more than we hoped—stronger."
Vidura nodded, his eyes flicking to Dhritarashtra, and adjusted the scroll, his voice soft, "He's forged in fire now—Kuru grows with him."
Dhritarashtra's staff creaked under his grip, the wood groaning faintly, and his head tilted, catching the cheers, the praise, the sword's clink.
His silence bit deeper, a shadow amidst the light, his fingers digging into the staff, his knuckles whitening as the room roared on.
A noble in crimson approached Pandu, clapping his back, his voice loud, "Heard you spared them—captives instead of corpses, eh?"
Pandu's lips curved, a tired smile, and he glanced at the roped tribesmen, their heads bowed, their defiance bled out in the valley's dirt.
"Mercy binds tighter than death," he said, his voice steady, "they'll spread the word—Kuru's reach is long."
The noble laughed, a hearty bark, and raised his cup again, "Wise and fierce—Hastinapura's luck runs deep with you!"
The hall pulsed, nobles pressing closer, their voices overlapping—"A true son!"—"The tribes'll think twice now!"—their fervor a living thing.
Bhishma stepped back, his arms crossed, and watched, his nod firm, a quiet pride burning as Pandu stood tall, the sword a badge at his hip.
A servant slipped through the crowd, her sari rustling, and bowed to Satyavati, her voice low, "The wounded rest, lady—the captives are secured."
Satyavati nodded, her gaze sharp, and turned to Bhishma, her tone firm, "He's done well—Kuru's name rings louder today."
"His name," Bhishma corrected, his voice warm, "Pandu's forged it—blade and blood, the plains know him now."
Pandu turned the sword in his hands, its scars glinting, and met Bhishma's eyes, a flicker of gratitude beneath the weariness in his own.
"For you," he said, his voice soft, a murmur lost to the cheers, "your lessons held—I brought them back."
Bhishma's smile flickered, rare and real, and he inclined his head, the bond between them a steady pulse in the room's chaos.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, a dull thud against the marble, and he leaned forward, his voice low, a bitter hiss, "Glory… always his."
Vidura heard, his brow creasing, and stepped closer, his sandals scuffing, his tone gentle, "He fought, Dhrita—you'll rule yet."
Dhritarashtra's lips twisted, a scowl flashing, and he gripped the staff harder, the wood creaking again, his silence a wall against Vidura's calm.
"Tell me something," he muttered, his voice flat, "something of laws—spare me the warrior tales."
Vidura nodded, his curls shifting, and began, "A king once decreed peace, and his word held the realm…"
His voice flowed, soft and steady, a thread of order in the storm, and Dhritarashtra's frown eased, just a fraction, as he listened.
The nobles pressed on, their cheers unrelenting, and a lord in blue clapped Pandu's shoulder, his voice booming, "Next, the eastern hills—lead us, prince!"
Pandu laughed, a tired, bright sound, and raised the sword, its blade catching the light, "If Bhishma wills it—I'll go."
Bhishma chuckled, a low rumble, and shook his head, his tone warm, "Rest first, Pandu—you've earned that too."
The hall roared again, goblets clinking, and the banners fluttered high, Kuru's influence swelling with every cheer, every raised cup.
Pandu stepped to the dais, bowing to Satyavati, the sword steady at his side, his voice humble, "For the line—I'll keep it strong."
Satyavati's eyes gleamed, and she nodded, her voice soft, "You already do, boy—Kuru's future shines in you."
The captives shuffled in their ropes, their heads low, and a soldier nudged them forward, their presence a testament to Pandu's victory and mercy.
Dhritarashtra's staff stilled, his muttering fading, and he slumped back, the cheers a distant roar as Vidura's tale wove on beside him.
Bhishma watched it all, his stance tall, his pride a quiet fire, and murmured to himself, "A legacy begins—strong and sure."
The throne room glowed, its banners snapping, the Ganga's hum a steady pulse beneath the triumph, tension simmering in the shadows.